Battlefield Cas
by YoukaiNemisis
Summary: Dean is wounded on the battlefield in WW2 era France and Castiel is a medic coming to his aid. AU, obviously... Written for tumblr user lamourlapresminuit.


**Somewhere in France, 1942:**

Dean regains conciousness and bites down on a groan of agony. _What the hell just happened?_ he thinks. The ground is rough and cold beneath his body when he tries to move, and this time he can't help the sound of pain that escapes him.

"Juste une minute, monsieur, restez encore!" an annoyed voice speaks beside him. He turns his head enough to see a man with close-cropped messy black hair and the most intensely blue eyes he's ever seen kneeling in the mud beside him.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean rasps. The man reaches out and touches Dean's shoulder, and Dean yelps again in pain. "Get off me!" he manages.

"Vous avez reçu une balle dans l'épaule, idiot. Vous devez rester immobile." Dean can't understand a word the other man is saying. The dark haired man glares at him for another minute before he sighs, and speaks very slowly and clearly. "Je suis un médecin, je suis ici pour vous aider." He waits, the taps his fingers against the shoulder of his uniform. Dean watches, confused. The man looks down and huffs in annoyance, before scraping the mud off the patch, revealing a red cross. "Je suis un médecin," he repeats. "Je m'appel Castiel."

_At last!_ Dean thinks, _French I know!_ "Oh. Okay. You're a medic. Your name is Castiel." He adopts the same tone as the other man and speaks just as slowly and clearly. "My name is-"

"Dean Winchester. J'ai vérifié vos balises lorsque vous étiez inconscient." The medic produces a bag and starts rummaging through it. "Maintenant se taire et de rester immobile." Castiel produces a field bandage and slaps it in place, causing Dean to gasp at the agony that shoots through his body.

"That hurts, you son of a bitch!"

"Il ya un peu plus d'anglais que je connais," Castiel mutters. "Demandez-moi si je me soucie," the medic continues. "Je l'ai dit de se taire." One hand reaches behind Dean, and the medic pulls him into a sitting position, causing the world to spin slowly around the wounded soldier. Castiel wraps another length of bandage around and under his arm, before shifting so he can take Dean's weight against his body. His long fingered hands delve into the bag again, and he comes out this time with a thin leather case, which he unzips to reveal a set of slender syringes. "C'est la morphine. Morphine, comprenez-vous, stupide américain?"

"Don't call me stupid," Dean growls. "I know what morphine is." He tries to help roll his shirt sleeve up, but his hand is slapped away by the other man. Castiel efficiently rolls the sleeve up, finds a vein and injects a small amount of the drug. It isn't instantaneous, but within a few moments, Dean feels the morphine take effect. The pain recedes, and Dean sighs in relief.

"Look, buddy, thanks. But we've gotta get out of here. Er, comprende?"

"C'est Espagnol, imbécile." The medic shifts Dean, then helps him to his feet. His uninjured arm is slung around the dark-haired man's shoulders. "Nous devons sortir d'ici. Venez avec moi." The other man is shorter by a few inches, but there's a deceptive strength in his frame as he helps Dean start to slog through the mud. "Je déteste ma vie. Je passe mes journées en tirant les Américains stupides de la perdition, je qu'est-ce que je obtiens? Rien."

"What?" Dean manages to ask with most of his concentration on moving his feet.

"Rien," the medic repeats, sighing. "L'hôpital de campagne est à deux miles d'ici." As he walks, Dean tries to puzzle this out, and he is inordinately proud of himself when he does.

"The hospital is two miles away!" Those blue eyes just give him a look, one filled with weary annoyance.

"Si vous le dites."

"What's your name again?" Dean asks. "Jum apple what?" The medic glares before speaking.

"_Je m'appel_ Castiel."

"Well, Cas," Dean replies, "thanks for the help. Er, merci, right?" Castiel's lips twitch in a smile.

"Vous êtes le bienvenu. Maintenant, soyez tranquille ou vous pourriez faire tirer dessus à nouveau. Et il pourrait ne pas être l'ennemi."

"Right," Dean agrees helplessly.

**Author's note:** Why is it when Cas becomes French he becomes a sassy, sarcastic petit bâtard? Many thanks to tumblr user lamourlapresminuit for the prompt and for correcting my French - although it's still pretty laughable.


End file.
